


Postmortem

by ShannonXL



Series: Body of Evidence [3]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gender Issues, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6650767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonXL/pseuds/ShannonXL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over. Long live the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postmortem

“Rogers,” Natasha rasps. “Don’t do this.”

He grimaces, jaw swollen where she’d landed a solid kick. The bones in his jaw will be healing. Unpleasant. He will not allow it to distract him. His mouth will taste like blood. He glares at her from across the room. He’s barely broken a sweat. She’s panting.

“I told you why you had to stay out of it.”

“Natasha, I’m not-”

“I know what he meant to you!” She raises her fists, crouching low. Easily defensible position. “Are you going to do this?”

Wordlessly, he closes the gap between them. He’s fast, faster than most people his size. And he knows what a smaller opponent is capable of. Resourceful. Steven Rogers is one of the few people on Earth that Natasha knows, with no reservation, is impossible for her to beat. Not with all her skills. He can counter every one of her tricks. Can endure despite bullets, electrocution, and multiple stab wounds. In a fight against him, alone, the best she can hope to do is take him down with her. Which is why she knows he is holding back, despite promising to spar with her with everything he’s got.

He lands a solid punch to her gut but she uses the momentum to get around him, behind him. She’s on his back and has her garrotte wrapped around his neck and she has already devised three ways for him to have avoided this. She squeezes, not enough to strangle him, but hard enough to hurt. Which is. Rude.

She feels the barely contained anger rolling off him in waves. She’s been needling him for an hour. Fighting dirty. Turning a friendly match into a pissing contest. One they both know she can’t win. Natasha leans down to whisper in his ear.

“ _Fight_ _me_ Rogers.”

He gets his fingers around the garrotte, then slams her body down into the floor. She absorbs the full shock of it, his shoulders pressing up against her lungs, stealing the breath from her throat. He rolls off her.

“Better,” she wheezes.

“Stop it,” he spits out.

She tosses one of her taser discs at him.

He catches it, absorbing the shock. It barely breaks his stride, though she can tell the sensation was more than unpleasant. He grits his teeth against it as he grabs her by the neck, flinging her back against the wall of their training room. She can feel the dent she’s left there. He chokes her, squeezing. She can feel the strength in his grip. If he squeezed hard enough, she’s sure that he could sever her neck in half. Rogers is staring at her, analysing, and Natasha lets him, absorbing the full force of his anger. Her chest is heaving, her body’s natural reaction fighting against her impulse to keep still. Her vision is going hazy. She can’t swallow. She doesn’t want to remember the last time she felt like this, but the memory tastes like bile in her mouth and the way he’s looking at her, like he hates her, it’s too similar.

“Christ.”

Rogers lets go and catches her shoulders before she falls. Natasha closes her eyes, swallows back the nauseous feeling, remembers how to breathe.

He waits until she can stand on her own before letting go.

“How bad is it?” He whispers.

She straightens. “I’m fine.”

He’s staring at her neck.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

His mouth is set in a hard line.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

She raises her eyebrow.

“I told you to.” Fails to hold back a cough. Rogers winces.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“In a minute.” She sighs, dropping the air of amusement. It’s not working. “Like most people, I don’t enjoy being strangled.” She waves him over to the benches. “Come sit with me.”

He follows her, though she can feel his reluctance. It was foul play, to use his fear of his own strength against him, worse to manipulate his emotions. But she can think of no other solution. He is angry with her, for intentionally misleading him in his search for the Soldier. James. It was cruel, and there should be consequences, even if it was necessary. Just because something is done for a good reason, does not make it a good thing to have done.

Natasha sips from a bottle of water, testing the damage. There will be some swelling, and obvious bruising. Make-up and high collars for a day or two.

“Do you know why Fury asked me to join the team?”

He’s surprised by the question. It came without context.

“Because you’re good?”

She laughs, hollow. It’s not very funny.

“I’m good at a lot of things. None of which are useful if I’m in the public eye. I’m not especially strong. I can’t fly. Can’t shoot lasers out of my eyes. I’m just a regular human with some very specialized training. More or less.” She stares at Rogers. “I would have been useful to him running covert ops. Infiltration and extraction. He did it because it was what I wanted.”

Steve sits down next to her.

“Oh.”

She nods.

“I’m the only one. None of you wanted to be heroes. Even Clint was just there to have my back. You all showed up because you wanted to do the right thing. Protect people. Because you were the only ones who _could_.” She stares straight ahead. “I just wanted to _be_ good.”

Steve opens a bottle of water for himself, but doesn’t take a sip.

“You still don’t think you are?”

She leans backwards. Back straight.

“What I think does not matter. It’s what I’ve done.” She licks her lips. “That’s not the point though. The point is that Fury gave me a choice. He saw what I wanted, and he gave it to me. Even though it wasn’t the best choice for him.”

Rogers almost rolls his eyes.

“I think it worked out okay.”

“The point is that I should have.” She swallows. “I knew what your choice would have been. And I didn’t.”

“Natasha.”

“I know what I should have done.”

“He told me.” He reaches for her hand. “He told me that he asked you not to. That he was. Not himself. He was afraid he’d hurt me.” His eyes are so blue. “It’s what you were afraid of too. I understand.”

She shakes her head.

“Not good enough.”

His brow creases.

“What?”

“It was a reasonable decision given the risks. It was still a hurtful one. And you are still angry with me.”

He looks like he wants to disagree, but the evidence is clear on her neck. And he can’t bring himself to lie. It’s fascinating, how earnest Rogers is. Unfamiliar. Even Clint lies sometimes, though he often doesn’t realize it. Rogers is perfectly capable of lying, of withholding information. She trusts him completely to dissemble to protect anyone under his command. But in moments like this, with the stakes so strange and undefined, he refuses to be anything other than honest. Worse, he makes it look easy. She envies it.

“I was. You’re right.” He sighs. “I guess I’ve got some trust issues to work through,” self-deprecating. He glances at her sideways. “Know anything about that?”

She hums.

“Trust issues? Yes. Plenty. Working through them? Not my area of expertise.”

He stands, offers her a hand. She takes it. He smiles, true and warm.

“Work in progress then.”

She accepts that while nothing is concluded, for the moment their power imbalance has been restored. Natasha did not like having the weapon of his anger at her disposal.

* * *

James- it’s official, he goes by James now- is not yet welcome at their shiny new facility in upstate New York. He is still a security risk, he insists. He shouldn’t have clearance for shit. Direct quote. Rogers disagrees, but it’s not up to him.

Natasha drives alone, because it is easier to be alone. Quieter. Just the rush of air as she passes other vehicles. She leaves the window open by a centimeter. It makes a sound like white noise. Good company.

Clint is on another mission. She chose not to be briefed on it, so she’s not entirely sure where. Last time she’d heard from him he sounded cold. Eliminates a large portion of the planet. Clint is what he calls ‘warm-blooded’, meaning that he is rarely bothered by cooler temperatures. But the tremor in his voice suggested that wherever he is, he is not finding it pleasant. Beyond that observation, which she was unable to ignore, Natasha is choosing not to track his whereabouts. Rogers will inform her if she is needed for an emergency extraction. She trusts his judgement. She trusts Clint. She’s growing as a person.

The compound is not a prison. There is no point. James is skilled enough to break out of any standard detention center. Instead he is staying in a lightly guarded warehouse in Queens. Far away from civilians, it’s an old black site that was abandoned during the Cold War. Of course, S.H.I.E.L.D. found a use for it. It is lightly guarded, because someone needs to be there to inform the Avengers if anyone is stupid enough to try to break in. Or if their new friend decides it’s time to leave. The minimal security is a show of good faith: We trust you not to kill us all and leave. Of course, the fact that James stays is a show of good faith as well. I trust you not to try and use me for the only thing I’m good for. No one’s messed it up yet, but it’s only been two months. Natasha might be ‘growing as a person’, but she’s not going to drop her guard.

He’s sitting in front of the television when she arrives, eating beans out of a can that he clearly opened with his left hand. She knows he has a can opener. Wonders if his opting not to use it is some sort of message, or just a vestige of his life before conveniences like can openers. He waves at her when she comes in through the window, but doesn’t get up.

“I have a door,” he observes, not bothered.

“Your security is terrible,” she grins. “You’re supposed to microwave those.”

He shrugs.

“What for?”

Natasha settles down on the couch, leaving a foot of space between them.

“To kill bacteria, I think.”

“Huh.” He takes another bite, licking the fork clean. “You want some?”

“Nah.” She stares at the television. Some daytime talk show. “I talked to Rogers.”

James nods.

“He still angry?” His accent has been slipping into his language patterns more and more over the past weeks. She thinks it is probably a good sign, though it could be intentional. An attempt to try to sound less threatening. Though she supposes the desire to appear less threatening is only worrisome when it is coming from her.

“He is. But now we have addressed it. He is aware that his anger was a liability.”

James takes another bite, talking around it.

“Guess he’ll have to get over it then. Can’t let the team suffer on his account.”

Her lips curl into a smile.

“That was the intended outcome.” She looks at him instead of the television. He is more interesting. “Did you convince him to stop hovering over you?”

James snorts.

“Not likely. I barely got him to take me off his unofficial suicide watch. Now his thing is ‘honoring my preferences’. Seems to think it’s important whether I feel like eating Mexican or Italian. I already chose to ditch Hydra for the guy. I think that’s enough choice for this decade.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to explain I don’t care.”

Natasha sighs.

“If I figure it out I’ll let you know. In the meantime it is probably easier to pick something arbitrary.”

He nods.

“Yeah. So long as he doesn’t catch on.”

They are both silent for several minutes. It is. Sharon would have called it domestic. He finishes the beans. She leans into the couch cushions. It seems incongruous that two people like them could sit together in the middle of the day, with the television on. Especially with all the concealed weapons within arm’s reach. Natasha has counted a minimum of five hidden on James’ person. She suspects that none of them have been approved. Wonders what Rogers would make of _that_ choice. It causes a genuine smile.

“That’s bad news if I ever saw it.”

It makes her smile wider.

“What? Little old me? Well I never.”

He throws his head back and laughs.

“Oh сыночек, they didn’t know what they were getting into with you, did they?”

She’s not sure who he means, but the observation is accurate. James is perhaps the only person who knows exactly who she is. It is. It should be unsettling. But the sensation is in fact the opposite. Which is. Confusing. James settles back down from his amusement, looking at her. Examining.

“This is probably the time I’m supposed to ask if you’re doing okay.”

She raises her eyebrow.

“Oh, is it?”

He shrugs.

“Well. It’s the question everyone asks me. Only seems fair.”

She considers it.

“I’m not sure.” She sighs. “That’s not really the right answer.”

“Oh well.” He tosses the empty can into the garbage without looking. “I think we both know bullshit when we hear it, so what’s the point, right?” He considers his next move for a moment before speaking. “You did kind of have a few major life revelations recently. We could talk about them or something.”

Natasha tries to look incredulous.

“Are you trying to ‘dad’ me right now?”

He has the grace to look appalled.

“What? Little old me? Well I never.” He winks. “Humor an old man?”

She snorts.

“What am I supposed to do?” She shakes her head. “I’m as surprised as you were, I’m sure. There’s not really a guide for revelations of this variety. There’s no ‘Chicken Soup for the You-Were-A-Boy-And-Then-The-Russians-Gave-You-A-Vagina Soul’. I checked.”

James winces.

“You don’t need to-” he waves his hand with unspecified impatience. “You don’t have to be glib. If you… if you need. You can say whatever is it you actually want to say about it.”

She shrugs.

“I don’t know how else to react. I was trained to be pleasant, not honest.”

“You could be pissed,” he offers. “I’d be pissed.”

She nods at his arm.

“Are you pissed about that?”

He touches the metal elbow, not concealed in the privacy of his warehouse.

“Yeah.”

Her lips go crooked.

“Red and silver not your color?”

His lips twitch. She keeps going.

“Because we can repaint it. Blue would go with your eyes. Or black, kind of seems like your favorite, would definitely match your wardrobe. Skin tone would look a little weird but I’m sure we could come up with something. Or we could confuse everyone and paint pink unicorns all over it. That would show Hydra.”

He nudges her with his shoulder.

“Stop.”

“Why doesn’t anyone like my jokes. I’m way funnier than Tony, but-”

“Natasha.”

She faces him, and he’s looking at her. Not glaring or wincing. Impressive.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He nods.

“Is there anything you want to say?”

She feels a hollow space in her chest the next time she inhales.

“No.”

He smirks.

“Then don’t start talking for my benefit.” He looks away, and she releases the breath. He fist-bumps her shoulder. Natasha wonders who he learned to do that from. “You don’t have to say anything, if that’s what you want.”

“And what are you supposed to do,” she murmurs. James snorts.

“You’re the one who found out all the fucked-up things about their past in the shittiest way possible. I’m just supposed to sit here and be supportive.”

She can’t hold back the laugh that litters her next words.

“Oh really? You’re being supportive?”

He glances sidelong at her.

“Sure. It’s what normal people do. I get the impression I need to work on being a person.”

It’s unfair to be needling him like she has. She’d blame it on instinct, or habit, but those would be excuses, and she’s not using those anymore. Natasha doesn’t apologize, because she knows he doesn’t want an apology. Instead, she leans against him.

“All right then,” she whispers. “Tell me what the normal response to this is. Should I change my name? Burn all my bras? Run away to somewhere nobody knows me and pretend none of it matters?” She grimaces. “I guess a normal person would just drink.” Sticks out her tongue. “I’d rather burn things.”

James wraps an arm around her.

“I shot my best friend in the gut and tried to drown myself. Don’t ask me what to do.”

She nods.

“Didn’t work, did it?”

He whistles.

“Oh no. S’how I convinced Steve to quit the suicide watch thing. He made this sour face when I told him it was a waste of time. Couldn’t do it even if I wanted to. It’s why I tried to have you do it.” He squeezes her. “Sorry about that. Probably doesn’t make me parent of the year.”

She shrugs.

“I get it. I would have done the same thing.”

She can feel him stiffen. He’s still sensitive about. Well. Anything he feels responsible for, but especially anything he regrets about her. It feels awkward to be the recipient of such sensitivity.

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s a shortage of perfect breasts in the world. It would be a pity to damage mine. Especially after Department X worked so hard on them.” She rubs her lips together. “At least wiping all the red from my ledger gives me something to do.”

“Wipe out the red?” His voice sounds thin. Natasha nods.

“Just something I say.”

“What do you mean?”

She moves away a little so she can see his face, but he appears calm.

“It means. You know I’ve done a lot of bad things.” She cuts off his argument before he can start. She’s heard it enough from Clint. “And I’m trying to accumulate a bigger list of good things. It’s something people call redemption.” She exhales, heavy. “For me it just means it’s something I have to do. Because if I don’t, I’m not really good. The sum of my life needs to be more good things than bad things, or else it makes no sense to be alive.” She gnaws on the inside of her cheek. “I should have died a long time ago. A lot of the others did. And I think it’s because they wouldn’t have. Tried. They would have just let their bad things be the sum total of their lives.” She waves her hand at, nothing. “I know it’s not true.”

James forms the word slowly.

“Redemption.”

“It’s a stupid word. It’s what Christ did for all the Jews. Not me, I guess.”

That surprises him.

“You’re Jewish?”

She shrugs.

“Among other things. News to me too. Shalom.”

James sighs.

“You know,” he shakes his head, starts again. “You were out looking for who you were, right?” She nods. “Now that you know… this doesn’t mean the person that was is the person that you have to be. You can do whatever the hell you want Natasha.”

She snickers.

“That’s very insightful James.”

He rolls his eyes.

“I’ve had a lot of time for introspection lately.”

She smiles.

“I’ll consider it.”

James leans back against the couch. Natasha eases into his embrace. It feels. Gentle. Soothing. Revrent. She remembers what he’d said, about counting his child’s fingers. Amazed that they were perfect, all ten of them. Natasha is amazed he was able to feel anything at all, let alone something so similar to love. Belova had been so clinical. Natasha has gone through every record that exists trying to find any trace of the woman. It has not been a fulfilling search.

“Well.” James perks up. “I don’t know about you but I’ve had enough feelings for the day.” He grins at her. “Wanna go shoot things for a while?”

She does.

There’s a range set up outside the living area of the warehouse. Bright open sky, though they’re surrounded by brick walls and scaffolding. And there’s no one around to complain about the noise, or call the police, or worry about them. Only the security team, and they’ve been alerted. Natasha is pleased to see that James has been allowed real guns. Though she supposes that disallowing them would have been futile. If she can sneak in, then he can sneak out. Another show of good faith.

James has saved up cans and bottles to use as targets. They won’t be moving, so none of this will really be difficult, but it’s the habit that matters. Knowing that you’ve used the muscles you’ve learned you must always keep trained. It will give them both a sense of security that they’d rather not have. One they’re not yet willing to give up.

He lets her go first, “because you’re my _guest_ , don’t look at me like that” and her aim is perfect. Natasha can appreciate his taste in guns.

“Your turn,” she reloads and hands the barrel to him. James takes it, shooting up into the rafters. Glass bottles shatter and fall. It takes seconds to take them down, though he must have been there for at least an hour setting them all up. The air smells like gun oil. It’s so familiar as to be almost unremarkable. They’ve run out of targets. Natasha drags the recycling bin closer and tosses a few bottles into the air. All of them explode, one bullet each. Faster than blinking. She smiles at him.

“Not bad for an old man.”

He chokes on a laugh.

“I’m sure there was a compliment in there somewhere.” He puts the gun down. “This is what passes for fun around here. Sorry it’s not better.”

She holds her hand out to him. For a second he reaches for the gun but she shakes her head. Swallowing, he takes her offer. Looking up at him, Natasha places his hands in the right places. He does what she asks without a word, though his grip is lighter than air against her body. Nervous. James is staring down at her like he still can’t believe she’s got all ten fingers. It makes her glad she hasn’t lost any over the years.

“Dance with me?”

His breath comes out in a stutter.

“I’m sure there are better dancing partners out there for you.”

She doesn’t budge until he gives in.

“You fight dirty, anyone ever tell you that Natasha?”

She grins.

“Little old me?” She pulls him into the steps. Sure enough, his body remembers dancing. It’s an old waltz. No music, but they don’t need it. “You bet your ass I do,” she whispers. He doesn’t take the lead, and she doesn’t follow. They’re in sync. Go where they need to go, working through the steps without conferring.

“Thank you,” she says when the song would have been over.

He doesn’t let go of her, but she feels a jolt go through him. It’s like he’d forgotten he was holding her at all.

“For what?”

She shakes her head.

“Just thank you.” _For_ _choosing_ _this_ , she thinks but doesn’t say. Instead Natasha closes her eyes for a second, allows herself to be unalert for a single moment. “That’s all.”


End file.
